


A Perfect Stranger

by babel



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Alternate Reality, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-03
Updated: 2013-05-03
Packaged: 2017-12-10 08:05:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/783745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/babel/pseuds/babel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bashir married Palis and works for her father, but Starfleet calls him to DS9 for a few months to help cure a Gamma Quadrant virus. (Originally posted in 2006.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Garak

I sit at my customary table -- shadowed, shoved into a corner, and hidden from most of the restaurant by a staircase. In short, the kind of place someone can hide, even if he happens to be the only Cardassian resident on a mostly Bajoran, Stafleet infested station.

Quark's is unfortunately even more crowded and noisy than usual, but it makes for interesting people-watching. Lieutenant Dax is entertaining a small group at one of the more central tables, several meters from where I sit. Doubtlessly the purpose is to welcome the young man -- whom I do not recognize, but who I suspect to be the specialist who has come to aid Dr. Martinez's research -- sitting between Major Kira and Lieutenant Tovan. He's a strange creature. Young to be a specialist. Young to be a full-fledged doctor, for that matter. He looks quite out of place, this meek civilian among the herd of uniforms. Something seems quite impossible about him. An impossible slenderness or an impossible grace, even in his nervous fidgeting. Impossibly large eyes.

Oh, Garak, you're being ridiculous. He is not only too young, but too human. And I do believe that the metallic band on his left hand signifies that he is also too married.

Yes, perhaps it has been too long since I've indulged myself. And now, of course, it is too late. Far too late for anything like the young doctor who is now smiling quite sweetly at Dax as he subconsciously twists the ring on his finger.

Perhaps he is not _too_ married after all.

I shake my head at myself. This is the result of some ridiculous, deeply-rooted desire not to die alone. To have someone by my side to tell my secrets to. I thought I had out-grown the more archaic parts of my cultural heritage. I now suspect that they were always there, waiting until I was too weak to fight them off.

Soon, I will be too weak to do anything at all.

I wonder as I watch him sip his tea: What is his name? I know that I saw it in the ever-so-confidential arrival notices. The bottle of kanar I've been nursing for the past hour has had its effect on my memory. I watch Dax's lips as she speaks, waiting for her to give me the answer I seek.

Ah, there it is. Dr. Bashir. Julian Subatoi Bashir, I remember now. Married to a girl named Palis. A doctor at her father's medical complex. Such nepotism usually denotes inferiority of some kind. Of course, I'm hardly one to judge on the subject, and somehow, I have the feeling that Dr. Bashir is not inferior at all. In fact, as I write the mythology of him in my mind, I decide that he is spectacularly gifted. That the weary, almost defeated look on his face is not jetlag, but the result of years and years of working below his potential to please his wife and her father.

I realize that it is more likely that he is drearily ordinary, but that would hardly keep my mind off of the buzzing pain, somewhere deep within my skull, waiting like a predator for its moment to destroy me. _My_ Dr. Bashir is a brilliant, fascinating young man, who would have never failed to maintain my interest, even after years of happily content domesticity.

Oh, the depths a man sinks to when he is on the verge of death.

I look down at my kanar and, after a moment, decide that it isn't really doing me any good. And, soon, the pain won't allow me to stand upright. A horrible image enters my mind of collapsing in Quark's -- a swell of people gasping, surrounding me. My Dr. Bashir rushing over, as doctors do. And as I die, I realize that he has failed to save me and is, in fact, as ordinary as I fear.

No. I won't die here. Better to do it quietly. In my quarters. With a thousand secrets to keep me company until they too die.

How pitiful to paint such a mundane moment in such a melodramatic light -- I've been around Bajorans too long.

I stand with my eyes cast down. And as I head toward the exit, I nearly run over the poor young doctor. When had he gotten up? Probably when I was staring into my glass, feeling sorry for myself. I'm not used to being so unobservant, so I stand mute, staring at him.

And he is staring at me. I discover that those impossibly large eyes are also an impossible shade of yellow-brown, like sunlight on Cardassia. "I'm... I'm terribly sorry." 

He's half-frantically trying to dry the front of my tunic with a napkin, and I belatedly realize that he spilt a drink on me.

"It's quite all right," I mutter. When he doesn't stop trying to dry me off, I catch his wrist. He looks up at me so that I can see his eyes again. I can tell I've scared him. It's been a while since anyone found me _scary_. "I assure you, Dr. Bashir, it's all right."

His eyes widen further. Probably wondering how I know his name. I bow my head, and strain a smile through the haze of pain, and I hurry out of the bar before he can ask me any questions.

I just want to go to my quarters and think of his eyes and Cardassian summers and my time on this station finally ending. I don't need anything else.


	2. Julian

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bashir tries to learn more about his Cardassian patient before it's too late.

I keep having to remind myself that I don't know him.

I don't know the man lying on that bed unconscious, with his vital signs slowly drifting downward. I don't know the man whose clothes are still stained with the Tarkalean Tea I spilt on him two days ago. It's not my job to save him, even if that were possible. Dr. Martinez says that there is too much brain damage at this point, and all he knows is that there's some sort of implant that's causing it.

My job is to study this virus, try to guess it's effects on the Alpha Quadrant, find a way to cure it. No patients. Just numbers.

"Doctor."

I blink at Dr. Martinez, realizing that he must have said something before that, but that I don't remember what it was.

He raises his eyebrows. "Something wrong?"

"No. Yes... No." I laugh weakly and rub my temple. "Are you sure there's nothing to be done for him?"

Dr. Martinez looks confused for a moment, then glances over at the Cardassian a few feet away from the work station. "Commander Sisko sent a request to the Cardassian Union for what we need to replace the damaged tissue, but they aren't exactly forthcoming about. Well. _Anything_. I don't think he was in good standing with them anyway."

"Even so, he must have a friend on his home planet. If we could find one and, I don't know... Maybe they could pull some strings?"

"Our security officer is looking in to it, but I don't think Mr. Garak's the sort of person who makes friends. And even if we did find a way to remove the device and had the material to repair the damage _it_ did, the overdose has weakened him to a point that..."

"I know, I know." I can't stop looking at the Cardassian -- at Garak. Even in a coma, he doesn't seem peaceful. There is anger in his closed eyes, bitterness in the line of his mouth. "I'm just not very good at giving up, I guess. Even when it's not really any of my business. It's just that I met him."

Martinez furrows his brow. "Really?"

"Well, not _met_ him. I ran into him. Literally. Spilt tea all over him. He seemed ill, but I could tell he'd been drinking, and I thought it was that." I sigh, pushing my hand through my hair. "I should've said something. I'm just not used to..."

"Patients?"

"That sort of patient. The people who come to me already know something's wrong, and know that there's maybe a ten or five or one percent chance that they'll survive it. If they do, it's because of something I did. I'm not used to someone dying because of my negligence."

Martinez is quiet for a moment, then he stands and pats my shoulder. "You should call it a night, doctor. This'll wait until morning," he said, nodding toward the diagrams on the workstation viewscreen.

"How long do you think he has?"

"A few hours, at best."

I mutter a thank you, and I head for the security office.

* * *

"I don't know what you want from me, Doctor," the security chief growls.

I'm fairly certain that he doesn't like me.

"Dr. Martinez said that you're looking into Garak to find a way to help him. I just want to know if you've made any progress. And if there's any way I could help. "

He grunted. "Why?"

"Because I'm told no one else here really cares about him. And if he does die, which seems likely, we should at least know who did it and bring some justice out of this. Surely you can understand what it is to desire justice, Mr... Odo, was it?"

He sat back in his chair, peering at me as if I were a suspect. "I can't give you any classified information." He pauses. "I _can_ tell you that Quark sent a message to the Cardassian Union three nights ago."

"Quark? The bartender?"

"When something illegal happens on this station, he is usually involved." His eyes glint.

"Your bartender's a criminal? What sort of place _is_ this?"

"Apparently," he says. "The sort of place that has an agent of the Obsidian Order as a tailor."

"A... what? What do you mean?"

Odo sits with his fingers laced together, saying nothing. I am now absolutely sure that he doesn't like me.

"Fine," I say, standing. "I'll talk to--"

He holds up a hand, interrupting me. "I'm... not interested in knowing what you plan to do next."

I press my lips together, trying to hide my annoyance. He thinks this is _amusing_ , of all things. But I'm too tired to argue with him, and I know it wouldn't do any good anyway. Slowly, I push myself out of the chair and leave.

Outside of his office, I can see Quark's bar -- and Quark himself, locking up for the night. I run toward him, nothing short of amazed that I can still run when I'm this exhausted.

"Wait, wait! I need to speak with you."

Quark barely seems to notice me. "The bar's closed, but you're welcome to come back in the morning."

He begins to walk away, and I follow him. "I want to know what you know about Garak and the Obsidian Order."

Quark's eyes widen, and he drags me out of the walkway into a alcove. "Not so loud. Dr. Bashir, right? Why would you think _I'd_ know anything about _that_?"

"Well, for one thing, you looked like I'd pulled a phaser on you when I mentioned it." I sigh. "I don't have anything against you. I'm just trying to find out who did this to Garak. I was told that you spoke to someone on Cardassia about him."

"I don't know where you get your information, Doctor, but--"

"Look, Mr. Quark, if you don't stop playing innocent, I'll find the first Cardassian who'll listen and I'll tell him that you know something about the Obsidian Order."

"No need to do anything drastic," Quark says. "All I know is that Garak gave me a serial number to replace something, and the number was classified by the Order."

He wanted to replace the device that was killing him? "Who are the Obsidian Order?"

"The half of the Cardassian government that deals in information."

"An intelligence service?"

"Have you heard of the Tal Shiar?"

"Of course. Romulan intelligence."

"Well, they're a bunch of _philanthropists_ compared to the Obsidian Order. You don't want to mess with them, Doctor."

"I'll decide what I want to do, thank you."

"Suit yourself." Quark backs away. "If you'll excuse me."

I catch his arm. "Just... one more thing."

* * *

Garak's quarters are warm; overly warm for me, but I presume it is a comfortable temperature for a Cardassian. It's about the size of my guest quarters. I can't imagine living in so small a space for more than a few months.

I'm not sure if I've done something wrong by having Quark break into Garak's quarters or not. Quark left in a hurry when he was finished, so I'm sure that _he_ thinks it's wrong. I wonder if Garak would mind, were he conscious enough to mind anything. I wonder if he would feel violated at the thought of me sitting at his desk, looking through his things.

One of the drawers was open before I got here, and the contents are a mess. It looks like something is missing, but I can't tell what. Nothing much bigger than a stylus.

I am trying not to look at the empty hypospray at the far left-hand corner of the desk. I am trying not to think of him here, alone, pressing it against his neck. Knowing that it will be the last thing he remembers.

Of course, with all the pain his tissue damage would have caused, he may not have realized he was taking a lethal dose of triptacederine. Somehow, that isn't a very comforting thought. I'd almost prefer suicide to an accident. At least then, it would be his choice.

What am I thinking? That isn't what's important now.

I'm not sure what _is_ important, though, even as I rummage through his desk. There isn't much there, and most of it has to do with tailoring. There are a few PADDs full of nonsense that is probably some sort of code -- I hope that doesn't have the answer, because I can't break it in time. There are a few things, like a tiny abstract bone carving and a blue glass bottle stopper, that don't belong at all. Probably trinkets of a sort, something to remember home by while he was so far away. They seem peculiar things to keep, but he seems a peculiar man. A spy for the Obsidian Order? Or maybe an enemy of them? A hapless victim that they found reason to punish?

Perhaps all three?

The comm panel on the desk chirps, and I answer without thinking that I am somewhere I am not supposed to be.

"Dr. Bashir?"

Martinez's voice. I clear my throat. "Yes?"

"Odo told me you were there. I thought I should let you know... Mr. Garak has died."

I sit, unable to speak, unable to move, as if my entire nervous system has been switched off. For a moment, I'm sure Martinez has made a mistake. It's just a misunderstanding. If I could just speak, I could ask him to repeat what he'd just said, and it would be something else entirely.

But that's the first stage, isn't it? Denial?

"Doctor?"

"Uh, yes," I manage. It doesn't quite sound like my own voice. "Yes, thank you."

I turn off the comm before he can say anything else.

It's over.

Palis says I'm too sensitive for this kind of work. She says I care too much. That I never know when to quit. But I don't have a choice now, do I? 

The room seems smaller now than it did before -- hotter, suffocating. I know what everyone will _think_. The real doctors did their work, and now the child-who-would-be-detective goes back to his research and his numbers and his miracle working.

"You're right," I say aloud to the empty room. "I _give up_. Are you happy?" I slam the desk drawer closed.

Or. I try to, but it stops halfway.

I drop down to the floor and pull out the drawer to peer behind it. I reach in and my fingers find something -- a box obstructing the drawer's path. A simple box with a carved bone inset, a similar style to the little sculpture I'd found. I expect it to be locked, but it isn't.

It's full of papers. Real paper with real words written with a crisp, clean hand. I don't recognize the language, but it something about it bears a resemblance to the station. It must be the Cardassian language.

I set the box down on the desk and go to the computer console.

"Computer. Do you have any, ah, lessons in Kardasi?"

"Yes. There is a comprehensive--"

"Show it to me. Just. Scroll through it. All of it." I watch the words appear on the screen, and for the first time since I was fifteen, I don't care if anyone finds out that I'm absorbing this better than any Human should.

"Scroll faster," I say, watching the lessons fly across the screen.

"Faster. "


	3. Mila

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mila comes for her son, and finds a Human instead.

There is a Human boy asleep on the couch.

Perhaps he is old enough to be considered a man, but he looks like a boy curled up the way he is, with a mess of papers surrounding him. He reminds me of Elim as a boy, when he would fall asleep exhausted after a day of pushing himself too hard.

So, this is where my son lived for the past... three, four years of his life? Time runs together since Enabran retired. Enabran would be furious at me if he knew I was here. He would likely kill me if he knew what I was planning to do.

I kneel down next to the boy, careful not to step on any of the papers, and I touch his hair. "Wake up," I say, gently nudging him.

His eyes drift open, slowly at first, then quickly as he realizes that he's woken up to an unfamiliar face.

"Relax." I keep my voice smooth and low, so that I won't frighten him. "I came here to collect my son's things before I take his... Before I take him home."

He pushes himself upright, his eyes still glazed from sleep. "I-- I'm sorry. I was trying to help, but I..."

"Were you his friend?"

He shakes his head. "I only came to the station a few days ago. I met him once, and the next time I saw him he was, well. And he just seemed... I don't know."

"Tell me."

"Alone," he says quietly, an apology in his eyes.

I press my lips together and look down. "You're right. He was."

"I'm sorry."

"I'm not faultless," I say, plainly. "And I'm not the victim either."

He is quiet for a long moment. His muscles are tense, and I can tell he's uncomfortable. "Did... Odo find you?"

"In a sense. He was asking around for people with the family name Garak, which is not an entirely uncommon name on my planet. Fortunately, a friend of mine told me, and I contacted the station."

"I should... I should leave." He stands awkwardly, like he still hasn't quite woken up yet. I hold his shoulders to steady him. "I'm sorry. I'm intruding. I'm--"

"Don't say you're sorry again. You tried to help my son. I'm thankful."

He swallows thickly. "I found all of these papers with his writing on it. Some of it doesn't make sense, and I don't know if I'm translating it poorly or if he was delusional when he wrote them. I pick up some things like he left home, and he learned how to hide from... hunters? But I don't know."

I can't help but smile. The expression feels strange on my face. "You did all this for someone you didn't know?"

"What did I _do_? He's dead."

"Our people have a tradition," I say, slowly. "When we die, we tell someone we love all of our secrets. I don't know if you're the one he intended to read all of this, but I think he would have if he knew you. He would've liked you."

He looks at me. His eyes are huge and round -- and a peculiar color that reminds me of summer.

"My wife died last month," he says, his voice barely a whisper. He looks away. "I know it's not the same as what you're going through."

His expression is so blank that I worry where his mind must be. I've seen men shut down before, and he looks like someone on the verge of it. "Grief always feels the same. Come here." I gently guide him back down to the couch. "Tell me. Tell me what happened to her."

He furrows his brow, concentrating, not angry. His mouth works in tiny, soundless words until, finally, he closes his eyes and draws in a slow breath.

"I got home late-- I always get home late. She was already asleep. She seemed fine." He twists at the gold band on his finger as he speaks. "But when I woke up in the morning, she was cold and she wouldn't wake up. We found out it was an aneurysm. Of all things. Who in the hell dies of an _aneurysm_? How could the daughter and wife of doctors die of something so _treatable_?"

"It wasn't your fault."

He smiles bitterly. "I tried to bring her back, but she was too far gone. All I succeeded in was working over a lifeless body for two weeks." He pauses. "Her funeral was on a Sunday. I didn't even take a day off."

I sit next to him, watching his profile. I'm trying to absorb the information, but I've absorbed so much in the past few days, I'm not sure I can anymore. He looks at me, and I can tell that he wants to apologize... for laying his pain on top of my own or for telling a stranger so much about himself. I don't know which.

I speak before he does. "Let me tell you a story."

He nods slowly, and for the first time since I've become too old for the interest of young men, I can tell he cares about what I have to say.

"There was a little boy who was born to a very powerful man and a simple housekeeper. The housekeeper did everything she could to protect her little boy, but the man was too powerful, and he took him from her -- molded and manipulated the boy until he controlled him completely." 

I wet my lips, giving myself a moment to reconstruct my stability. "But he underestimated the boy, and one day, the boy stepped outside of the man, doing something that the man did not want him to do. It was the right thing. The honest thing. The _good_ thing. But the man was so angry, that he exiled his own son."

"What did the housekeeper do?"

"Nothing... Nothing yet." I say. "Anyway, that might help you understand what he wrote eventually. It might take a while. My son was naturally ambiguous."

He looks down at the papers, then up at me. "I can't keep these."

"You can. And you will. They're for you whether he knew it or not." I hold up a hand before he can argue further. "Learn his secrets and keep them alive for him. You may find that you don't have any more room to keep your own. Trust me. I've been keeping another man's secrets my entire life."

"And you think it's a good thing? To lose your secrets for someone else?"

"It keeps you honest with yourself." I pat him on the knee and stand. "But, there comes a day when that's no longer the case."

"Are you leaving?"

"Yes. It's time to go home."

He stands with me, his collarbone nearly the same height as my chin. He doesn't look so boyish now that he's towering over me. "Do you need any help?"

"Just take care of his things for me, would you? I don't really have room for them anyway. I just want to take him."

"Thank you," he says. He takes my hand and squeezes it gently. "Thank you."

I squeeze his hand back. "His name was Elim Garak. His father is Enabran Tain. I thought you should be the first to know. Before I go home and tell everyone else."

He blinks at me, as if some part of him almost understands the gravity of my words. But I won't tell him everything; he will find out soon enough if he is the sort of man I think he is. I only give him a smile, and I leave him alone with what he has of Elim.


End file.
